Sabrina Fair

It was just after 9 PM, and the autumn day was done. Mrs. Ledbetter had assembled a small group for the séance. There was a young gay couple, Chris and Conor, who were nervous and a little giggly but seemed to accept Sylvia as authentic. Very different was Joe Jackson, a well-groomed retiree of about seventy whose ramrod posture suggested he was ex-military. He seemed skeptical at first, but Sylvia’s manner—warm but professional—seemed to allay his doubts.

“I never thought I’d believe in ghosts,” Jackson admitted. “But I can’t deny the evidence of my eyes and ears. There’s something wrong here.”

“I know!” Chris exclaimed. “We got back from a concert the other night and found all our clothes had been taken out of the closet and thrown around. It was like some maniac was trying on our things. So creepy!”

Sylvia asked the group to sit around Mrs. Ledbetter’s kitchen table, and for their host to dim the lights.

“Do we need to hold hands?” Chris asked.

“Only if you feel comfortable doing so,” Sylvia replied. “It helps a lot but is not vital.”

There was a moment of silence, then Jackson grunted that it was okay with him. He had seated himself between the two women. With a circle established, Sylvia closed her eyes and leaned back a little. She took some deep breaths and cleared her mind of everyday concerns. The room, the people, and even the darkness were distant, then irrelevant. She could still feel the dry and callused fingers of Jackson to her right, and the softer flesh of Conor to her left. She was alone in the universe but for that human contact.

“Is there a spirit here that wishes to be heard?” she asked quietly.

There was a distant, dull noise that might have been a door slamming in another apartment.

“If any spirit wishes to speak to me, please come closer. Make your presence known.”

This time the thud was closer and more pronounced. Then it came a third time, and the floor vibrated with an impact. One of the young men whispered, “Oh my God!” Somebody, probably Jackson, shushed them.

“Who comes?” Sylvia asked. “Please speak if you can.”

She reached out with her mind but found nothing to grasp. It was odd. Normally, a ghost produced a distinct temperature drop or set the hairs on her arms and neck erect. This time, there was nothing but a faint sense of confusion and melancholy. Another thud rattled crockery in the cupboards.

“Tell me your name, spirit!” Sylvia urged.

The voice that replied was feminine, plaintive, almost a wail of despair.

“Sabrina, Sabrina…”

“Sabrina,” Sylvia repeated. “Did you once live in this place?”

“No… no. He brought me…”

This was progress. Sylvia resisted the urge to interrogate the ghost too intensely all at once, but she had to find out if her theory about a collector’s item was true. It would narrow things down.

“Who brought you here, Sabrina? Who brought you to this place?”

No reply. Instead, there was a sudden, pungent odor. It was unpleasant, a chemical smell that suggested cleaning fluid. Before Sylvia could identify it, the smell faded. Then a kitchen drawer opened, the sound shockingly loud. Cutlery rattled. Sylvia thought of her dream and opened her eyes.

The kitchen was dark, but a faint ray of light from outside was visible under the roller blind. Something was moving out of the light, something that gleamed. Sylvia shouted a warning and jumped up, breaking the circle. Confusion reigned for a moment, with Chris and Conor asking what was wrong. Then the light came on. Jackson was standing at the switch, frowning.

A steak knife hovered just behind Conor’s chair. Chris saw it and screamed. The knife fell instantly, its point plunging into a floor tile.

“It wanted to murder us!” Chris said, dragging the puzzled Conor to the doorway.

“I don’t think so,” Sylvia said, though she was a little shaken. “I think Sabrina—that’s the spirit’s name—I think she wanted to send a message. But she’s confused. Did anyone smell anything unusual?”